Forgotten Dreams: Tales of Rapture Before The Fall
by Neithacultra
Summary: A compilation of misadventures of random people in the city of Rapture before the civil war when Rapture was still regarded as the underwater city of dreams.


Warren realised he had to keep glancing at his clock so as to know when to eat or sleep. Very little changes underwater over the courses of twenty-four hours. The dark impenetrable ocean outside the clear glass windows of the city always remained as it was, the rays of light from the lush overworld never once touching the seabed with life. Creatures still thrived however, as Warren observed, though the twisted shapes of the fish (or what he thought were fish) hurt his eyes, their distorted and surreal bodies obviously not meant to be exposed to human eyes.

Light gypsy jazz was playing from a wheezing gramophone somewhere in the lobby of Fort Frolic, an exaggerated recreation of broadway from the surface. Twilight seeped in through the curved glass ceiling, and the flamboyant neon lights did not succeed in bringing warmth to Warren's heart but rather mounting on to the ghastly atmosphere. It was midnight, his watch depicted, and not a soul was in sight. He feared that someone was watching him from the dark alcoves under the stairwells and between the jazz clubs and lounges, chuckling to itself as it watched him shiver. Nevertheless, cleaning up Fort Frolic was his job.

Warren sighed at that. He had hoped that Rapture would give him an opportunity. An opportunity to spring him out of the wretched life he had on the unforgiving overworld, where meals were dispersed and neglible and sleep was cold and painful. But someone has got to clean the sewers. Warren had no qualifications at all, surely they will not accept him into some big-headed society where cuban cigars could be smoked like they were oxygen! However, at least he was better off than he was before. They gave him a place to stay at Fontaine's Home for the Poor in Apollo Square, a cozy apartment to be shared with thirteen other workers. It was a tight constrained placed, but at least there was shelter when he had to hit the hay.

The jazz that was whirring from the gramophone suddenly wheezed to a stop. Alarm hit Warren, and he spun his head around a few times to see if anyone was there. He was not expecting anyone to be there when he turned, but instead a pale man stood against the staircase, his face cold yet somehow warm. The man donned a clean tuxedo, but that was not the main feature that caught Warren's attention. It was his face, seeming like something out of a painting, with eyes like flowers where the delicate curly eyelashes were petals. His moustache was exquisite, one that portrayed class. A musician, Warren presumed? But what was he doing so late in Fort Frolic? Surely he could not be having a performance at this time!

"H-hello," Warren said shakily, a little disturbed by the man's calmness. "It's late, sir. I recommend you return to your quarters."

The pale man laughed and spoke, "Do you even know who I am, small man? You are talking to Sander Cohen, the world's greatest artist! Bask in the presence of my glory!"

Warren gulped nervously, further chilled by the man's peculiar flamboyance. He tried to leave, but the man who called himself Cohen stopped him by grabbing his shoulder. Warren tried to wrench it off, but Cohen's grip was sturdy with no intention of letting him leave so easily.

"What do you want from me, sir?" Warren muttered. "I haven't done anything!"

"Have you a taste for music?" Cohen chuckled.

"Erm, yes, sort of. But I don't really have the time to appreciate it. I rarely have the money to get into those clubs, you see."

"My, my," Cohen consoled. "How pitiful. I guess tonight is a great opportunity for you then!"

"What? Why?"

"Say hello to an evening with Sander Cohen!"

"But, sir, it's midnight."

"I don't bloody care!" Cohen snarled suddenly, jolting Warren. "I'm Sander Cohen, and with me, it always be evening! Now come with me, and enjoy a feast for your ears!"

Warren wanted so desperately to run back home, because he knew whoever that man was, he was downright mental. Who would randomly force strangers to listen to their music? What kind of audacity was that?

In fear of getting mutiliated by the loony, Warren followed Cohen's orders obediently. The crazed artist brought him into the theatre on the second floor that was flamboyantly labelled the Fleet Hall by flashing neon tubes. The theatre was crimson dark, the only light being flashed upon the stage where a grand piano lay. Cohen pranced up onto the stage and bowed to the empty plush seats that abounded the theatre. Warren took a seat somewhere in the middle, where he assumed was a somewhat safe position that was close enough to show Cohen he was paying attention yet distant enough to sprint out the door in the back in case anything went wrong.

Sander Cohen sat at the piano and began to make dramatic gestures of him warming up his fingers, which Warren felt was slightly revolting. After the superfluous act, Cohen started to play the instrument in an astounding plethora of ways. For the first few lines of the piece he started off with delicate arpeggios, but then it shifted drastically to sorrowful scales which soon escalated to thrashing chords. Some parts of the piece made no sense at all to Warren's mind, the notes and dynamics somehow not fitting together perfectly right, like two contrasting jigsaw pieces. It resulted in a great portrait of absurdity, something not meant for human comprehension.

Cohen finished the off the song with a downhill trill, like the piece was descending into the deepest darkest depths of an abyss, making no obvious sign of returning at all. He then sprang up and bowed to the empty crowd, but no one applauded. That did not delude the musician, however, for it seemed he was quite used to the routine of performing to no one but himself. What a strange fetish, Warren thought.

"That was something, wasn't it?" Cohen chuckled, leaping off the stage and striding to Warren.

"Yes, indeed," Warren said, nodding nervously. "It was quite surreal."

"I haven't thought of a name for it yet, though," Cohen muttered, putting a knuckle to his chin. "Would you kindly suggest one?"

The weirdness of the song made Warren think about the strange fish that roamed the ocean floor, thriving in the eternal twilight. The song somewhat told of their secret lives, masked from humanity by the impenetrable deep. Warren thought that would be a nice reference.

"How about 'Fish'?" Warren replied softly, fearing rejection.

Cohen raised a painted eyebrow and said, "Why, that's interesting!"

A silence filled the theatre for about a minute as Cohen took a seat beside Warren, thinking deeply. Warren edged a little further away from Cohen, preparing himself for anything the crazy man was about to do. Was he going to explode in rage and cry that the name was not worthy, or was he going to grin like an idiot and guffaw about it?

After the quiet, Cohen mumbled, "Yes, I see. It fits perfectly well. A fish. This strange living creature called a fish, created by the hands of god to dominate the vast bodies of water that are scattered across the canvas of life. That's a good name, man."

"Thank you," Warren whispered. "May I leave now?"

Cohen unexpectedly smiled, and it was not one of those smiles that an insane man would don. The smile unmasked his bombastic facade of an artistic maniac, revealing the flesh of a human underneath it. His eyes suddenly softened, no longer having that cold hard look that was emphasised by his stark curly lashes.

"Yes, you may," Cohen said warmly. "I hope you enjoyed yourself this evening. I would love to see you again someday."

Warren tried to grin back at Cohen, but the weirdness of the entire situation so far weakened the muscles around his face. He left at once, riding the bathysphere back to Apollo Square. He carried nothing back with him except the peculiar memory of an evening with Sander Cohen.


End file.
